Chapter 10 : Emotional Unstable

Song Recommendation : Everything Works Out in the End ( instrumental louped) ♡

Ren Xiao leaned against the glass wall of his small room, the frigid surface pressing into his back, as though it could anchor him. His fingers jittered, the typical gnawing itch in his skin causing him to fidget. The feeling climbed up his hands and forearms, tinting the tips of his fingers a soft shade of pink. It felt as if the sensation was something alien, too tangible to disregard but not entirely his own. He couldn't hold back the impulse to scratch.

He glanced at the computer screen, where the information regarding Professor Shen had left him with more uncertainties than clarity. There it was again, that gnawing sensation in his belly, that annoyance that wouldn't subside. Ren Xiao shut down the laptop with a decisive click, the screen fading to darkness before him. The abrupt silence in the room felt overwhelmingly stifling. He sighed, his breath materializing in a cloud as he rubbed his temples, attempting to center himself.

The itch on his fingers only grew stronger, spreading uncontrollably. His hands shook, a frantic energy pulsing through him, and he couldn't tolerate it any longer. Ren Xiao stood up suddenly, his feet barely making a noise on the chilled floor, and he headed to the bathroom. The cool air in the hallway provided relief, like a brief escape from the turmoil in his mind.

Inside the bathroom, Ren Xiao splashed cold water onto his face, the cold biting into his skin like ice. He kept his eyes shut as the water trickled off his face, the feeling of dampness grounding him temporarily. The image in the mirror looked back at him: unkempt hair, reddened cheeks, but it was his eyes that drew his attention. Clear, bright blue, but behind them. . . there was something else. Something he couldn't define.

His breathing was erratic as he locked eyes with his own reflection in the mirror. The words he had whispered earlier reverberated in his thoughts.

I'm an emotional, unstable omega.

He had never liked the term 'omega. ' It seemed so delicate, something that could shatter. But what was he truly? How much longer could he maintain his composure when everything around him appeared so unstable?

Ren Xiao exhaled deeply, his hands quaking as he dried his face with a towel. He needed something to soothe his mind. He had to regain his sense of control.

With a resigned breath, he turned and exited the bathroom, his bare feet making gentle sounds on the floor as he entered his studio. It was colder in this space, a chill that seemed to emanate from the walls, but it felt familiar. The warmth of his paints, the aroma of oil and canvas, and the rhythm of his brush in motion. These were the elements that anchored him, even when his mind raced and his heart felt too burdensome to endure.

He positioned himself at his easel and picked up his headset, placing it over his ears. The familiar strains of the instrumental track Everything Works Out in the End started to repeat, the gentle melodies flowing into his consciousness like a soothing balm. His fingers, which had been restless just moments earlier, began to move independently. The tension in his body appeared to lighten slightly as the tune enveloped him, granting him the freedom to concentrate. His hand reached for a new canvas, the soft, smooth surface awaiting his touch.

The brush glided across the canvas effortlessly, without contemplation, without faltering. It felt as though the music were directing him, and each stroke came naturally, almost intuitively. The motions of his hand were rhythmic, and he became lost in the rhythm, the music serving as his sole anchor. The burden that had weighed heavily on his shoulders dissipated with each stroke of the brush. The calming melody and the steady actions of his brush merged, like a dance of their own.

An hour and a half went by. Ren Xiao did not realize the time pass. His eyes had grown heavy, his body lulled into a sense of tranquility that had escaped him all day. The canvas before him was nearly complete, but it was only when he halted, his hand hanging in the air, that he truly examined what he had created.

His heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened in astonishment. On the canvas in front of him was a portrait—a portrait of Shen Nian.

The professor's face, with its defined features and piercing eyes, gazed back at him from the canvas. Ren Xiao felt a chill run down his spine, and for a moment, everything appeared to come to a standstill. The brush shook in his grip, his body immobilized as though someone had hit pause on his existence. How? How had he painted this man, of all people?

His thoughts raced, but his hands quivered as they clutched the brush, as if uncertain about what had just occurred. He leaned in closer to examine the portrait, his breath snagging in his throat as the resemblance appeared too real, too striking. There was no doubting it—every line, every shadow, every detail captured flawlessly. It was as if the professor had emerged from his mind and onto the canvas.

Ren Xiao's heart began to pound loudly in his chest. How had this come to pass? How could he have painted someone he barely knew, someone he had only observed from afar? Was it conceivable that he had some form of connection to Shen Nian, something deeper, something beyond his comprehension? The notion made his head spin. The sensation in his fingertips lingered, as if it were linked to this strange, unexplainable event.

He blinked, attempting to understand the situation, but the harder he tried to rationalize it, the more his head throbbed. His fingers felt numb, and the unsettling sensation returned—like something just out of reach, something significant, but too elusive to hold onto.

Ren Xiao stood up suddenly, the quick movement causing dizziness. He moved a few steps away from the canvas, the chill of the studio now feeling stifling. The burden of the painting felt too heavy to bear. It wasn't merely the picture of Shen Nian that disturbed him; it was the unexplainable feeling that had come with it. It seemed like a jigsaw puzzle, one piece had fitted in, but the other pieces stayed hidden.

The music continued to play, but now it seemed remote, as if resonating from a distance. Ren Xiao ran his fingers through his hair, his hands shaking. He gazed back at the painting once more, as if wishing it would reveal its meaning.

"Shen Nian. . . " he muttered softly, his voice scarcely heard in the quiet of the room.

Why him? And why had he manifested in his art without his permission?

The answers felt like they were slipping away, just like the persistent itching feeling that wouldn't fade. Something had changed, but Ren Xiao had no clue what it was. All he understood was that this moment—this painting—would change everything.